


The Truth

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: qafchristmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-15
Updated: 2008-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, he's gotta decorate the house!" Deb squawks, her arms flapping.  "We're all coming over for Christmas dinner!  And Gus can't get there and be without a tree and… and… where's Santa going to put the presents?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five.  
> Written for LJ's QaFChristmas Community.

**One Week Before Christmas Eve**

If there is one thing that is true about Justin, it is that he loves to eat. He already had a leisurely breakfast with Brian less than two hours ago, but he still powers through a syrup-laden waffle and pancake meal at the diner with gusto. He pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth and contemplates the sodden goop dripping from the end of his utensil. When his metabolism changes, he's going to be a fat ass.

He decides he'll worry about that another day. Deb's cooking is just too good to pass up.

As if she's reading his mind, the woman in question hovers over his table. "Jesus, Sunshine, isn't Brian feeding you out there in the country?"

Another thing that is true of Justin: he has a pornographic mind. He considers and rejects several responses that would neither shock nor horrify someone like Deb before deciding to take the question at face value. "We had bacon and eggs this morning," he says, holding his napkin at his mouth to hide the mouthful of food he's still chewing. "I just can't resist your pancakes, Deb."

"They're from a box!" Debbie says, but she smiles widely and pinches his cheek and has a bounce in her step when she descends on the next table.

Ten minutes later, Justin is sopping up the remains of the syrup with his third piece of toast when Michael and Emmett slide into the booth. Well, perhaps it would be better to say: when Michael and Emmett and enough toy-filled bags to supply half of Pittsburgh's children overflow into the booth and almost crowd him out.

Michael rests his forehead on the table. "I'm exhausted," he moans.

"Please," Emmett says cheerily, waving gaily to get Kiki's attention. "We're stopping only for coffee. We still have to get that Millennium Barbie!"

"We got Malibu Barbie and Veterinarian Barbie and--"

"And every little girl wants Millennium Barbie," Emmett insists. "You don't want JR to be the laughing stock of her daycare, do you? Hmmm?"

Michael lifts his head wearily. "She's two." He looks at Justin. "Seriously, how many Barbies does a two year old need? We even got her a Ken."

Justin remembers a toy box in his sister's room overflowing with Barbies (and assorted Barbie parts, including a few dismembered bodies and random arms and legs), but he takes one look at Emmett's face and wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"What did you tell me, Michael?" Emmett asks, cocking his head and tapping a finger at his lips, pretending to ponder the question. "Oh yes, I remember. You said, 'Em, this is the first Christmas that my beautiful daughter Jenny Rebecca is spending with me in Pittsburgh, and I want her to have the most fabulous Christmas possible. Please, you've got to help me find her the perfect gifts.' And then there may have been begging."

"I didn't beg," Michael says, laughing.

"You know," Justin muses, "when Molly was little, she thought that Ken's last name was Sold Separately."

Michael blinks.

"Never mind," Justin mumbles into his hot chocolate.

"Shopping for my precious granddaughter, I see," Deb says, swooping down on their table and smacking a kiss onto Michael's cheek. "You're going to spoil her rotten!" She giggles. "If Gramma doesn't do it first!"

Michael swipes at the lipstick smudge on his cheek. "We're almost done," he tells her. "Then tonight, Ben and I have to decorate the house. Ben bought a ton of silver tinsel from the Big Q, and we've got Santa cut-outs and lights and -- oh my God, this is so cool -- we have a giant Rage cut-out wearing a Santa suit!"

"Brian will love that," Justin says dryly.

"Speaking of Brian," Emmett says, sipping at his coffee and doing his best to look innocent, "is Britin bedecked in Christmas cheer?"

Justin sets his mug down carefully. "You know Brian isn't into Christmas," he says calmly.

"He's having his son for Christmas morning," Debbie protests.

"I think Brian is aware of that, Deb," Justin says.

"Well, he's gotta decorate the house!" Deb squawks, her arms flapping. "We're all coming over for Christmas dinner! And Gus can't get there and be without a tree and… and… where's Santa going to put the presents?"

"Deb," Emmett stage-whispers, patting Debbie's arm, "Santa's not real."

Justin slaps a ten and a five on the table and slides out from the booth, narrowly avoiding tripping over the mounds of presents. "I'm sure Brian has it all sorted out, Deb."

"All sorted…" Deb shakes her head and hurries after him. She presses a white carton tied with string into his hand. Justin can smell the lemon bars, and he thinks he actually might be salivating.

"On the house," Debbie says.

 

**Two Days Before Christmas Eve**

Here is something else that is true of Justin: when he starts painting, he loses all track of time. He missed the re-opening of Babylon completely. And after he almost missed his flight from New York to Toronto to see Gus's first junior kindergarten school play -- he will never forget his mad dash through LaGuardia, covered in splotches of paint in varying colours and degrees of dampness, sporting two days growth of beard and a wild look in his eye -- Brian implemented a three-phone-call policy prior to all important events.

The first call he usually doesn't even hear, the ringing of the phone just being another piece of background noise that meshes with the music and the sounds of Liberty Avenue traffic. The second one manages to penetrate the paint fumes and he fumbles open his cell phone and mumbles something about how he'll be done shortly, then tosses the phone next to his palette. By the third call -- which usually features Brian yelling at him to get his ass in gear -- he's able to actually put his stuff away and leave the studio. Brian plans the calls so that Justin still has plenty of time to actually appear at whatever event has been scheduled for the evening. Depending on Brian's mood, he sometimes plans the calls so there is even time for a quick fuck beforehand.

Of course, it's only December twenty-second, so there is no emergency, no event he has to attend. Kinnetik's staff holiday party was held the previous week and he got there on time, thank you very much. (Cynthia got drunk and vomited into a large potted plant, and Justin plans to never let her forget it.) This means that there is no reason for Brian to call.

This also means that when Justin surfaces from his paint induced fog, glances at his watch and sees that it's already past ten o'clock, he yelps and throws a paint brush across the room.

By the time he cleans up and makes the long drive to Britin, it's eleven fifteen. The house is in darkness, except for a light burning in the master bedroom.

Justin crosses to the back of his car and opens the trunk. He frowns and looks down at the packages. Then he closes the trunk and enters the house.

He hesitates in the doorway to the sitting room, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. The mantle looms out of the darkness, gradually coming into focus. A couple of large candles and a snuffer are its only decorations. There is a basket of candies on the low slung coffee table.

He wanders through to the office, the kitchen, the dining room, the games room. All of the furniture is in place, all of the accoutrements that were meticulously chosen and placed just-so when they moved into Britin permanently are in their designated places. Justin knows that part of this is due to the twice-weekly visit from their cleaning service, but most of it is because of Brian.

Britin is clean, chic, and stunning. But in two more days it will be Christmas, and there is not a sign of the season in their home.

He finds Brian stretched out naked on the bed, reading a book. That the book is not The Kama Sutra or The Joy of Gay Sex is somewhat disappointing. They haven't fucked since a noon quickie in Brian's private bathroom at Kinnetik, and he would have thought Brian would be prepping by now.

"Lost track of time?"

Justin shrugs. "I'm working on that oversized piece for the Newton show in February."

Brian nods and stretches before setting his book aside on the end table. He grins. "The Roadster arrived today," he says.

Justin shakes his head as he tugs off his shirt. "Have you decided what kind of flowers you want at your funeral?" he asks. "Because Lindsay is going to KILL you."

"She can try," Brian says. He reaches out and snags Justin's arm, tumbling him down onto the bed. "It's perfectly safe," he says. "It's a pedal car. It doesn't even need training wheels."

"It's--"

Justin never gets to finish his thought because Brian is sliding him onto his back and pressing their foreheads together. His breath is warm on Justin's face.

"I want him to be happy," Brian says simply.

Another truth: Justin knows Brian like the back of his hand. And though he now has the perfect opening to confide in Brian about the contents of his truck -- a small artificial tree and some not-too-gaudy ornaments and decorations -- he doesn't take it. He remembers last year, lying beside Brian in the silence of the loft; listening to Brian's half murmured tales of Christmas Past, memories dredged up by too much rum and egg nog, bitter and sharp.

Justin knows that the house is his and he can speak up if he chooses. But he wants Brian to lay the past to rest. To start fresh with his son. And if that means no tree and no decorations, it's fine with him.

He wraps his hand around the back of Brian's neck and pulls him forward, closing the distance between them. And he tells Brian he loves him in the way he knows best.

 

**Christmas Eve**

Another truth: Justin hates business meetings. He can't imagine how Brian can actually enjoy getting bundled into a suit and holding court over a bunch of (probably bored) lackeys and flunkies and minions. And one accountant.

Justin wears his most informal jacket over a crisp white button down and a pair of trousers that Brian picked out, and still feels horribly constrained as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. His agent goes over sales figures and his business manager mumbles something about profit margins and Justin knows he should be paying attention, but he's already decided to bring all the paperwork back to Ted and let him go through it and explain it.

The meeting runs late, and the sun has already set as he heads home. He pulls in behind Brian's corvette, so surprised to actually see it in the driveway that he almost -- almost -- misses the strings of lights hanging in the front window and strewn throughout the hedges.

He ponders the lights while standing beside his car and chewing on his thumbnail.

Finally he decides not to think about it. He sling his portfolio over his shoulder and makes his careful way up the sidewalk, where a fine dusting of snow has made the pathway slippery. He turns his key in the lock and steps inside the foyer. Drops his portfolio beneath the heavy oak entry table before slinging his jacket onto the coat rack.

He takes two steps into the sitting room before the reality hits him. He blinks and rubs at his eyes.

Brian rises from one of the overstuffed chairs that face the fireplace, and smiles. "Merry Christmas, Sunshine."

Justin would speak if he were able. Instead, he takes the glass of wine that Brian offers him and staggers through the room, stopping at each new item. The ten foot douglas fir in the corner, covered with gold and white ornaments and twinkling clear lights. The boughs draped on the mantle, anchored by understated pale yellow bows. Candles of varying sizes on every available surface, their lit wicks filling the room with a soft and subtle warm glow. Beyond the archway into the dining room, he can see that the trend continues -- with a table runner, more candles, and a bowl of Christmas roses in the centre of the long wooden table. He ends up back at the tree, its base covered in brightly wrapped presents.

"When?" he boggles.

Brian's smile gets wider. "I told Henry to keep you busy until it got dark," Brian says. "I wanted… to surprise you."

Justin could have sworn that Henry repeated that profit and loss thing about three times. He shakes his head. "Uh huh."

Brian presses his lips together. "What do you think?"

"It looks like you took the Neiman Marcus showroom and transported it to Britin," Justin says.

Brian sets his goblet down on the table.

Justin crosses the room and wraps his arms around Brian's waist, leans back to look into his eyes. "I think it's beautiful," he says softly. "And I think it's amazing that you went to all this trouble for Gus. He's going to love it."

Brian nods once, slowly, and pecks him on the lips. "I've got Thai coming."

"Good, I'm starved."

"When aren't you starved?" Brian says lightly.

"I still need to wrap Lindsay's gift," Justin says. "They're getting in at ten tomorrow morning, right?"

"Flight arrives at nine fifteen," Brian tells him.

"I want to get that wrapped before the food gets here," Justin says, looking around the room. He scratches his head. "Where did you put the wrapping paper?"

* * *

Justin wakes with a start at little after one a.m. The last thing he remembers is curling up next to Brian at the start of Black Christmas. Now the television set is turned off and the room is lit only by the flickering candles, and he's lying in a puddle of drool on Brian's chest.

He sits up, wiping at his chin and at the damp fabric of Brian's shirt. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Brian grunts; gets up and pulls Justin to his feet. Together they make the rounds of the room, blowing out the candles before walking upstairs to bed. Brian lets Justin take the lead, and when he opens the door to their room, he gasps.

The entire room is filled with light. Candles line the end tables and the dresser, while tiny strings of light make the shadows dance across the walls. In the middle of the four poster, a pile of presents await.

Because here is one final truth: Justin doesn't know Brian nearly as well as he thinks he does.


End file.
